COMO il ristorantino

Let’s get one thing straight: if you’re looking for a giant bowl of overcooked spaghetti topped with a mountain of neon-orange cheddar, stay on the bus. Keep going until you hit the souvenir shops and the guys selling plastic whistles. But if you want to understand why people still give a damn about Italian food in a city that’s increasingly being swallowed by brunch chains and 'fusion' concepts that nobody asked for, you get off at Muntaner. You walk uphill. You enter the 'Upper Zone'—Sant Gervasi—where the air is a little thinner and the bank accounts are a lot thicker. This is where you find COMO il ristorantino.

The name isn’t just a cute branding exercise. It’s a 'ristorantino'—a little restaurant. It’s small, it’s intimate, and if you’re the kind of person who needs a football field of personal space, you’re going to be disappointed. But for the rest of us, the proximity is part of the charm. You’re close enough to smell the garlic hitting the pan in the kitchen and to see the exact moment the steam rises off a plate of fresh pasta being carried to the next table. It’s a room that feels lived-in, sophisticated without being pretentious, and populated by locals who know exactly what they’re doing.

Start with the vitello tonnato. It’s a litmus test for any Italian joint worth its salt. Here, the veal is sliced thin enough to be translucent, draped in a tuna sauce that is creamy, briny, and sharp enough to wake up your brain. It’s a dish that looks simple but requires a level of restraint that most chefs simply don't possess. Then, move to the pasta. This is the best pasta in Barcelona for people who actually like the taste of flour and eggs. The tagliolini with black truffle is a masterclass in indulgence. They don't skimp on the fungus here; the aroma hits you before the plate even touches the table—earthy, musky, and deeply satisfying. The pappardelle with wild boar ragù (cinghiale) is the kind of heavy-duty, soul-warming food you want on a rainy night when the world feels a little too cold.

The service is professional, which is a polite way of saying they don't have time for your nonsense. They know the menu, they know the wine, and they expect you to be there for the food. It’s the kind of efficiency I respect. There’s a small terrace outside, a little patch of pavement that’s highly coveted by the neighborhood regulars who want to watch the world go by on Carrer de Muntaner while nursing a glass of Nebbiolo. It doesn't have that manufactured buzz you find in the center; it’s a hum of conversation, the clinking of silverware, and the general sense that everyone in the room has figured out a secret the rest of the city hasn't.

Is it cheap? No. Is it worth it? Absolutely. You’re paying for the quality of the product—the DOP cheeses, the imported flours, the truffles that haven't spent three weeks in a shipping container. It’s an honest assessment of what good Italian food costs in a major European city. If you’re looking for a bargain, go to the supermarket. If you’re looking for a meal that reminds you that life is occasionally worth living, pull up a chair here. Just make sure you call ahead. In a room this small, there’s no such thing as a 'walk-in' on a Friday night unless you enjoy standing on the sidewalk looking through the glass like a hungry ghost.